


In the Quiet Deep

by PetrichorPerfume



Series: Amens in Amber [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel Bears the Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Castiel in a Ma'lak Box, Episode: s15e09 The Trap, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Ma'lak Box (Supernatural), Post-Episode: s15e09 The Trap, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22510963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetrichorPerfume/pseuds/PetrichorPerfume
Summary: Castiel slowly succumbs to madness after he takes on the Mark to defeat God, and is buried in a Ma'lak box. In the quiet deep, he remembers.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Amens in Amber [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1527551
Kudos: 29





	In the Quiet Deep

**Author's Note:**

> I have been meaning to write a little short post-episode s15e09: The Trap where Cas takes on the Mark and is buried in a Ma'lak box and such. 
> 
> This is inspired by Leonardas Andriekus' poem, "Loneliness." 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Excerpt from Leornardas Andriekus' 'Loneliness'

You’ll mark that moss amasses thickest

On the North of trees; this done,

You’ll mourn you’re no one’s guest here,

No one’s brother, no one’s son.

In the deep, dark recesses of his mind, he lay awake – one fragment of many in the ever-shifting maze of his mind.

_This is madness,_ he reminded himself.

The cold and the pressure and the sea and the salt (not to mention the sorrow; the endless waves of longing that subsumed him, vaster than the empires, deeper than the sea) were inescapable.

They surrounded him. A blanket.

No; a tomb.

The taste of salt alone – on his tongue; in his lungs, which no longer pumped air nor water but rather sat still and heavy in his chest, and in his throat – would have been enough to drive him mad.

He tried to conjure an image, any image. A fact, any little piece of knowledge connecting him to the world above – _so very far above, and the Heavens were even further_ , he thought.

He remembered the last nights he spent on Earth, on the solid ground above rather than this watery grave. With Dean. He remembered the moss growing on Purgatory’s strange, twisted trees – remembered how moss grew thickest on the North; remembered the lichens and the hanging vines; remembered the smell of loam and the fresh, mountainous air of that one dream Dean kept having, the only one he could slip into for some reason; remembered the scent of Dean, all pine and spring water, musk and heat and love, yes, love – it was for love of Dean that he’d allowed himself to be trapped here; the world above could burn, for all he cared, but the Mark couldn’t, wouldn’t stop there.

He’d known; he would have kept killing, kept fighting, kept slaying. He’d have laid waste to entire continents, but Dean had prayed, and never stopped, and eventually, he’d come home – not to die, but rather to face a fate worse than death.

Above, the world still turned. The stars were still moving in their fathomless orbits, the Heavens still heaved under the weight of too many souls; too little angels. God was still trapped, as he was, as he’d always be – from now until forever, here, in the quiet deep, without rest, without sleep – here, where he was no one’s brother, and no one’s son.


End file.
